In the Masai Mara, Trans Day of Remembrance

On savannah slope, the elderly lion’s mane catches breeze,
commands attention, even as he sleeps in the afternoon sun.
In a copse of ironwood near rocks at the river’s edge,
scattered in shadows–his family. Female hunters and children,
a dozen at least, not a mane among them.

As they wake, we see who chose to sleep
in thickets of branches, dense with shade, thicker
than blood, adolescents unsure if a parent
might slice them in slumber, cast them alone
into a hostile world.

The hunters wake, stretch, inhabit their skin–
climb to the top of a mound. The youngest
pounce and dodge like any kitten.

It’s the in-between who hesitate.
It’s the in-between who stand at the edge
of the wood, cool in the dark of deep green shade,
safe in the branches strong enough to become
bows, arrows.

Come out in the light, young lions.
Come be who you are meant to be.